


The Loft

by Skyroy14



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Leaving Home, M/M, Missing Derek Hale, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, getting drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:56:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4430843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyroy14/pseuds/Skyroy14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow the loft ends up a hangout for Stiles and for some reason Derek listens to his rants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Loft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crossroadswrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossroadswrite/gifts).



> This story is based off of [this](http://crossroadswrite.tumblr.com/post/124674172465/quick-someone-give-me-an-au-where-stiles) post on tumblr by crossroadswrite.

The loft was always his place to go. He had no idea why, just that the first time it happened he was upset about a C he got on a test and he ended up just driving. He didn’t even know where he was going until he ended up in the parking lot in front of the loft. Stiles was already there anyway, so he just thought ‘fuck it’, got out of the jeep and went into the building. Derek was as surprised as Stiles was when the door was thrown open with a screech and Stiles walked in rambling about how he didn’t have time to study for the test because of the supernatural research he was doing. In some way, Stiles didn’t want Derek to talk or to even acknowledge what he was doing, so he just kept talking and didn’t leave any room for Derek’s input. Derek just stared as Stiles paced back and forth, angry because he was a good student dammit and his dad would be disappointed in him again. And when Stiles was done with that rant he looked at Derek, said ‘thanks’, and left.

Strange as it was, Stiles went over there again, only this time he was spouting off incoherent nonsense about the inaccuracies in the Marvel movie universe compared to the comics. Not dire or important, but Scott had a tendency to space out during one of Stiles comic tirades and Stiles just wanted someone to _listen._ Not that he knew if Derek would listen, but Stiles figured that Derek hadn’t heard the argument over and over again like Scott had, so maybe there was hope Derek would pay attention. He was digressing his irritation over the fact that the Iron Man movies never discussed Tony’s drinking problem when he walked over to the fridge and grabbed a can of ginger-ale.

“Dude. Seriously?” He looked over at Derek, who, after realizing that Stiles was there to stay, was seated on the couch. “Who drinks ginger-ale? Why don’t you have something everyone loves like orange soda?”

Derek made a face. “Who loves orange soda?”  
“Kel loves orange soda,” Stiles deadpanned.

Derek’s brow just furrowed in confusion. “Well, it’s my fridge, so I fill it with stuff I like. And I don’t like orange soda.”

“Soda fascist,” Stiles mumbled as he tipped the cold can to his lips.

But the next time Stiles came over to ramble and went to the fridge, he paused. Because on the top shelf sat a canned six pack of orange soda. Stiles let himself smile a fraction and grabbed the drink before continuing on about how iambic pentameter was Satan’s mistress, and therefore Shakespeare had to be Satan.

It became habit. Stiles would burst in, mid-ramble, grab a can of orange soda from the fridge (which Stiles was _not_ pleased about, _at all_ ), and Derek would sit there and listen. That was the best part, Stiles decided. Derek just listened. He didn’t give his input on things or try to give Stiles advice. He nodded along, gave the occasional ‘uh-huh’ that made Stiles know he was listening, but he just let Stiles prattle on about this or that. A few times Stiles walked in on Derek making dinner, and Derek always plated up some food for Stiles. Stiles even had a cup with a lid that was kept in Derek’s cupboard because Stiles could not be trusted with an open can of soda and his expressive limbs.

Sometimes (not often) Stiles didn’t have anything to babble on about, but he went over to the loft anyway. He always felt lighter there. Stiles blamed Derek’s big ass windows. So he’d ask Derek about his day and if he was doing anything interesting, and Derek would talk with him. Honest to God talk.

Once, after a particularly harrowing nightmare involving fireflies and katana swords, Stiles found himself driving over to Derek’s loft in the middle of the night. His dad was on night duty, so Stiles wouldn’t be missed. He didn’t care that he was still in his pajamas. Stiles climbed the stairs to the building, but when he was about to open the door, he paused. The door was probably locked, seeing how it was two in the morning. He didn’t want to knock in case Derek was asleep. Leaning against the door, Stiles slid down so that he was sitting on the floor. He didn’t realize he was dozing off until the door jerked open and Stiles ended up on his back, looking up at Derek. Derek merely raised an eyebrow. Stiles picked himself off the concrete and followed Derek into the kitchen area and watched as Derek made tea. Neither said a word the whole time. Or when they were on the couch staring at the windows. Stiles fell asleep in the comfortable silence and woke up to a blanket thrown over him and an orange soda in front of his face on the coffee table.

If three’s a pattern, what’s the hundredth time, or the thousandth? Routine?

Stiles can’t be blamed. That was the routine.

He doesn’t think about it, just goes to Derek’s loft because that’s what he’s always done, and grabs his soda and rambles about the mating habits of penguins when he starts looking around for Derek and he remembers.

Derek’s not there. Derek left.

Stiles can’t blame Derek for leaving, he can’t. And he certainly can’t blame Derek for wanting to stay away, but at the same time Stiles can’t help but feel an ache in his chest.

The fact that Derek is no longer in the loft doesn’t keep him away. First off, there’s orange soda to be finished and Stiles doesn’t think Derek’s going to keep the power on while he’s away. Secondly, Stiles feels lonely. Which is strange because he has Scott and Lydia along with Erica, Boyd, and Isaac. But he can’t talk to them for some reason. He feels like he can’t. He’s tried before after everything had happened, but while they mean well, each one always had this look of pity every time Stiles talked and he hated that. Derek didn’t look at him with pity. Derek looked at him like he understood.

Stiles found himself going over to the loft regardless of the fact that Derek wasn’t there. The fridge became empty. Stiles refilled it with ginger-ale and he chose not to look into that too much. Just like he chose not to look into the fact that he sometimes spent hours at the loft just staring at the walls or looking around. He’d lay down in the middle of the floor on the hard concrete and stare at the dust motes that the light from the windows highlighted.

Out of habit – and to maybe not seem like a total loser – he started talking. To no one in particular, obviously, but he talked as if Derek was still there somehow. Maybe talking to nothing at all makes him more of a loser.

“You know,” Stiles would say to the rafters in the ceiling, “I used to hate having anything to do with you. Not that- not because it was _you_ , but more because you reminded me of all the horrible things that were happening and that you and Scott were the only ones equipped to deal with things. I was just an expendable human that got dragged into things. You growling at me and slamming me against things didn’t help.” Stiles would roll his eyes. “It took me a while to realize you were just, you know, incapable of showing concern like a normal person.”

Sometimes Stiles wouldn’t say anything. Instead he’d do homework in the quiet or fall asleep as the rain pattered against the windows.

Stiles hated it. It was too quiet, too empty, and too lonely. Stiles missed Derek.

Things in Beacon Hills were still the same though. There was a new bad guy, a new threat that everyone had to face. Stiles went home a few times bloody and bruised. Every time, he dared to hope that Derek might come back. And every time, Derek stayed gone.

He tried to look at from Derek’s point of view. Beacon Hills was full of ghosts and demons for Derek. Why would he come back?

After one hellish battle with some supernatural evil and Erica almost dying, Stiles ended up with his back against a wall of windows drinking a bottle of tequila.

“I think the worst part about this whole,” he swung the bottle around, gesturing to the empty room, “thing is that I talked so much with you, but I never told you anything. You’d listen to my theories about the social norms for the high school social structure and how it was like the animal kingdom. You didn’t even move when I went on that rant about how I was convinced demons existed and cats were the vessels they used to walk around. But I never….” His voice tapered off. He took a swig from the bottle to continue on, even though there was no one there, and silence was the only thing that answered him.

He sighed. “I never told you about how your lack of vocal expression used to annoy the shit out of me until I noticed how scared you looked when you made a suggestion. Like you were scared someone would write you off and tell you that you weren’t god enough.” Stiles felt a chuckle rise up out of him. “The best thing was your face, you didn’t even have to talk. Your eyebrows said it all. Or your scowl. I used to live for the brief moments where you would smile. It was a nice smile.”

He leaned over until he was laying down, looking up at the ceiling again.

“I used to find you attractive. Still do. Did. Actually. And I had a feeling you knew about it, but you didn’t say anything because plenty of people find you attractive. There’s so much more to you, though. Like the ridiculous way you have to fold your laundry. With the shirt sleeves on top of the shirt, I mean who does that? Or how you can’t stand doing dishes because you said Laura used to make you do them all the time. Or how you carry all that fucking guilt on your shoulders, even though none of what has happened is your fault.”

Stiles wiped at his nose and realized he’d been crying.

“I didn’t think it would hurt this bad. I miss our talks, with you just listening to me talk nonsense for hours. But I miss you talking, too. Or us not talking. Just…I miss you.”  
  
Stiles finished the bottle and fell asleep on the floor to the dead silence in the loft.

Stiles soon forgot about getting drunk and passing out in Derek’s loft. Life went back to normal and he went back his old routine. He goes back to the loft talking about how his biology teacher wants his class to go to a butterfly farm, but he refuses to go because butterflies _bite_ , the little bastards. He grabs an orange soda from the fridge like always and pops it open as he leans against the counter.

“I mean yeah, sure they’re pretty, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous to society!” He rolls his eyes and takes a drink. “Everyone’s going to be going there expecting-“

He stops. Looks down at his drink that is definitely not ginger-ale. He turns to look at the fridge and looks back down at the orange soda can in his hand.  

There’s a clink of metal hitting glass and Stiles looks over at the couch to see Derek there. He has a spoon raised to take a bite, oatmeal dripping off of it, and he has an eyebrow raised at Stiles.

“Everyone’s going to be expecting…what?” Derek asks.

Stiles stares. “Um. They….they’re going to be expecting cute little bugs, but…”  
Both eyebrows are up now. “But?” Derek coaxes.  
  
Stiles rushes his words out. “They’re going to swarm in a murderous flock. What. Are you doing here?”

Derek looks around. “I live here.”  
“Yeah, but.” Stiles looks at the soda in his hand. “You bought orange soda.”  
Derek shrugs and takes a bite of his oatmeal. “There was only ginger-ale in the fridge.”

Stiles can feel one of his eyes twitching, and before he can think of doing anything differently, he strides forward and rips the bowl out of Derek’s hands and slams it down on the coffee table, oatmeal slopping everywhere. For what it’s worth, Derek doesn’t look surprised.

Stiles points a finger at Derek. “You don’t get to- you don’t just act like nothing has happened! You’ve been gone for months Derek, months! And you want to talk about ginger-ale?”

Stiles rips a hand through his hair and falls back into the chair across from Derek. Not a word is spoken. Stiles leans forward with his elbows on his knees and looks at the floor.

“Why are you back?” Stiles asks.

Derek is looking at him. “I always planned to come back.”  
“Did you?”  
“Yes.”  
Stiles looks up. “Why now?”  
  
Derek picks the bowl up and makes his way toward the kitchen area. Stiles follows.

Neither one says anything while Derek rinses and cleans out the bowl.

“You know,” Derek says as he wipes the bowl down with a towel to dry it. “I installed some extra security after the Alpha pack.”  
  
This is not where Stiles expected the conversation to go. “So?” He asks, confused.

The side of Derek’s mouth quirks up. “So I put up cameras. Records video. And audio.”

Stiles furrows his brow, still not sure what the point of that information was.

But then it hits him. Everything was recorded. All of his visits to the loft, all of the conversations he had with the rafters in the ceiling.

Stiles feels his cheeks heat up.

“And for the record,” Derek places the bowl on the drying rack and braces his hands on the counter. “I missed you, too.” He says softly.

Stiles lunges and pulls Derek into a bone crushing hug. It probably doesn’t feel like it to Derek, but Stiles squeezes tight and buries his head into Derek’s shoulder. Derek clutches back just as tightly, but not so much that it hurts.

Stiles smacks Derek on the shoulder lightly. "Don't leave again," he mumbles into Derek's shoulder.  
Derek chuckles. "I'm not going anywhere."

**Author's Note:**

> "So why exactly are butterflies the bane of your existence?"  
> "They've attacked me before, Derek. They're the devil incarnate!"  
> "I thought that was Shakespeare?"  
> "...shut up Derek."


End file.
